


Kill Them (Kiss Me)

by Nenagh24 (EverFascinated)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hitman (Video Game), Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, M/M, No knowledge of Hitman needed, The OCs are there to be murdered, no beta we post like illiterates, sorta slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-11-04 14:23:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17899796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverFascinated/pseuds/Nenagh24
Summary: The International Contract Agency is where the wealthy go when they need someone to take irreversible corrective action on something or someone. However, with the loss of Hale Negotiations and the resurging popularity of the Silver Hunters, the ICA has been responding to the rising demands by hiring more agents to join the ranks.Stiles' recent injury means that he's helping manage the influx of candidates when an amnesiac hopeful with the skills of a seasoned professional needs a handler for his final test.“I think this is the most fun I’ve ever had as a handler, dude. Keep this up and you’re going to be my favorite.”Peter’s smirk, which he’d nearly contained behind a polite smile, bloomed into a smug grin.“Oh, sweetheart,” his voice was barely audible above the DJ’s mix. “I already am.”





	1. The Final Test

“Look who decided to show up.”

Quietly shutting the door to the conference room behind himself, Stiles gave Danny and his teasing a flat look as he made his way to an open chair.

“Still kicking people when they're down, Danny?” He let his limp become slightly exaggerated as he ribbed his coworker. “I thought you saved that sadism for field agents.”

That sniff from Lydia basically translated to a snort of laughter from anyone else and Stiles was pretty sure Danny'd covered his mouth with his hand to hide a smile because who ever actually needs to rub their face like that? Satisfied with his friends' reactions, Stiles didn't bother to keep his own smile from curling the corners of his lips.

“Sit down, Bilinski!”

Already in the process of doing so, Stiles gave the manager a nod and made a gesture somewhere between a salute and the universal 'go ahead' wave. Finstock watched him with narrow eyes until he was settled in the chair before going back to his pacing.

“Alright, everyone. Listen up!”

Stiles immediately did the opposite. Tuning out the speech he'd heard a dozen times before was a defense mechanism most of the handlers developed by the fourth repetition. He'd swear that Finstock had the speech memorized. Imperfectly memorized, sure - the man had a habit of jumping around in the middle of topics like his queue cards had gotten dropped and reshuffled to the point where newcomers usually had problems following it - but memorized none the less.

(Besides, if Stiles followed two orders in a row someone might start thinking he takes orders well. Best to not get their hopes up.)

Plastering a vague look of interest on his face, Stiles began eyeing the presentation screens and the sanitized dossiers they were displaying. A mix of men and women stared back at him, a melting pot of backgrounds and personalities with only two things in common. One, they were all looking for a job at the agency.

And two, they all had a body count.

He was reading up on the seventh of sixteen candidates when an elbow had him twisting in his chair to both try and dodge it as well as give his seat-neighbor an offended look. Danny was probably going for something of a flatly unimpressed look, but he was ruining it with his playful smile that never dimmed as he nodded towards one of the candidates listed on the other monitor.

“Here’s hoping I get the hottie.”

Stiles gave the muttered comment the dubious look it deserved. Tech genius he may be, but Danny’s taste in men wasn’t the greatest. ‘Middling at best’ would be putting it kindly in Stiles’ opinion.

“Martin, you’ve got 43 and 78.” Finstock caught his attention before Stiles could try to lean around the man to see who Danny was referring to. He glanced over at Lydia who looked neutral at the assignments. After returning his look with a half-shrug and a dismissive twist of her lips she went back to filing her nails.

“Could be worse,” she said to him under her breath. “They don’t read like psychopaths at least.”

A disappointed sigh from his other side let him know that Danny didn’t get his supposed ‘hottie’. Stiles patted him a time or two on the knee consolingly.

“It’s for the best, man. They keep telling us not to get too involved with the agents anyway-”

“Bilinski!” Finstock cut him off and waited until Stiles was finished rolling his eyes at the interruption before reading off his assigned candidates. “You’ve got 39 and 62.”

“Let’s see, Candidate 39 and 62 are...” Stiles made a show of looking for the two potentials assigned to him and the manager rolled his eyes before returning to his ‘put them through their paces’ speech. By the time he’d read through the first dossier (39 had a scar through her right eyebrow and a tendency to use poisons), the over enthusiastic man was back on a roll.

“Lucky.”

Brow furrowing, Stiles tried to figure out why handling 39 would make him luck- wait. His head swiveled to send an incredulous look Danny’s way, but the other man was leaning back and pouting at the far monitor.

Stiles started to scoot himself towards the edge of his seat as he normally would before a spike of pain reminded him that he had a bum leg. Hands flailing for a moment as he slid back on the polished wooden surface, he was quick to catch the armrests on the chair. Pushing himself up so he could see around Finstock’s gesticulating form, Stiles’ wince dropped off his face as he caught sight of Candidate 62.

“Ha - ah, uh,” he managed to sputter. “He’s, um...”

“I know, right?” Danny commiserated. Stiles was impressed that his friend wasn’t fanning himself.

Struggling to restart his brain, Stiles forced himself to look away from the piercing blue eyes of Danny’s newest eye-candy. A deep breath later and he was sure he’d wiped any trace of his previous frown from his expression. He then turned his now theatrically surprised look on his thirsty looking coworker.

“Danny, I’m impressed.” The considering look Danny was giving the headshot flattened at his tone.

He knew Stiles so well.

“Your taste has certainly improved since the hobo incident.”

“For the last time,” Danny’s predictable and oft repeated argument started almost before Stiles had finished speaking. “He was hipster chic, not a hobo.”

Stiles leaned over and patted his shoulder in that jokingly patronizing way that he’d learned from his father.

“I believe you, buddy.” Using the grip on his friend’s shoulder, he levered himself out of his seat before letting go. “That whole showers-only-once-a-week thing was definitely a decision to go green and not because he lived on the streets.”

An aggravated yet resigned sigh let Stiles know his work was done there and he started making for the door. Finstock just let him go, but Danny used his reduced speed to call after him.

“Let me know if you want to trade!”

Stiles shook his head even as Finstock shut Danny down as was expected.

“No trading! What do you think this is, the MLL?”

* * *

Casually straightening the cuffs of his sleeves under his suit jacket, Peter subtly canvased the area again.

It was a set. A simulated street with a few buildings, an alley complete with fire escapes and a car parked next to a dumpster, and a loud party happening a few floors up. The set wasn’t movie quality, not even infomercials would have walls made out of what was obviously plywood, but it was far more elaborate than what he’d expected.

Flashing a smile to a nearby actress as he leaned casually against the building across the ‘street’, Peter wondered how he could have possibly held expectations for this. Who expected to be interviewing for an international contract agency, or rather, _the_ International Contract Agency as it were? Who expected to be basically auditioning to kill people?

Himself apparently.

Whoever that was.

None of his rueful incredulity showed on his face, he was sure of it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel it in his bones. He forced down the slightly hysterical feelings that tried to rise up for what must be the hundredth time and tried to distract himself by massaging the covered scars on his shoulder to loosen the tension there.

Amnesia was no laughing matter, after all.

“Good evening, Candidate.” The smooth voice over his ear piece shook him out of his thoughts even as he showed no outward reaction.

“Tonight you’ll be facing your final test.” Just as there were actors, this interaction with a faceless voice sounded scripted. The person reading it just a little too bored, a little too stiff. “You have been placed inside a simulation from one of our agent’s files. The target was a woman by the name of Stacey Caldwell, a money launderer who used her position in the local real estate community to help multiple internationally wanted groups clean their liquid assets in return for a cut of the profit.

“Our agent was able to infiltrate the target’s exclusive rooftop event where she was planning to meet her next client and eliminated her before leaving without anyone connecting them to the murder. Tonight, you’ll have to do the same.”

His raised brows must have communicated his question to the speaker via one of the many security cameras littered around the set, as a less formal statement followed.

“Don’t worry about the actors, it’s just a simulation. Everything’s non-lethal and that’d better include you.” Peter'd allowed his expression to return to one of a neutral observer, but he could feel his interest spiking as he raised a single brow at the closest camera when he heard the subtle threat. “What? You think we’ll just take in known killers and set them lose on a bunch of hard working actors? How stupid do you think we are, dude?”

Both amused and a little insulted (’Dude’? Highly unprofessional.) Peter smoothed his face and unclenched his jaw as he casually eyed the fire escape once again. Straightening off of the wall with a small roll of his shoulders, Peter walked down the street to the pseudo-crosswalk to give himself more time and a better angle to view the building from.

Just as he crossed, he spotted a small curl of smoke wafting up from behind the alley’s dumpster.

An opportunity, his instincts sang.

Turning down the alley without hesitating, Peter casually wove by both the parked car and the dumpster and nodded at the waiter sitting beside it for his smoke break. His footsteps slowed as the other man rose from his squat. A moment of inattention while stepping on the nearly spent cigarette to stub it out had an arm catching the waiter around the neck.

One quiet struggle later and Peter was eyeing the alley for a relatively clean place to lay down the unconscious actor.

He heard a low hum from his earpiece. It sounded like the handler was watching closely even though he didn’t see another camera in any of the usual places. Ignoring both that and the fact that he somehow knew where the ‘usual places’ for a security camera were but couldn’t remember his own hometown, Peter shrugged off his suit jacket. Critically eyeing the uniform the waiter was wearing and the other man’s size, he then moved on to his belt.

There was a wet coughing noise on the comms, as if the unnamed man had swallowed wrong while drinking. A smirk curled his lip at the thought.

As he stripped the waiter of his uniform, the handler he’d been assigned for the test managed to get a hold of himself.

“Oh my god.” The voice in his earpiece was a little raspy from the coughing and Peter felt his smirk grow just a little wider. “I’m going to die if Danny hears about this.”

Sliding the waiter’s vest over his shoulders, Peter brushed both it and the borrowed pants off while looking for the camera that was feeding this to the apparently doomed man. No such luck. It did, however, help him confirm that no one would hear his mumbled reply.

“Are you?” He was sure the mic in his earpiece could pick up the low rumble, but he wondered if the man could see his smirk as well. “I hadn’t realized handlers could submit contracts of their own.”

“One, the ICA likes to think of it self as an amoral true neutral so anyone with money can hypothetically take out a contract on anyone else if they tell them why. Nosy bastards.” Peter didn’t know the man behind the voice, but he could almost imagine a faceless figure sitting at a stereotypical bank of monitors using their fingers to count their points. “Two, if I were anyone else you’d get docked points for unnecessary comments. And three, it’s funny that you think he would let anyone else be the one to feel the life drain from my body instead of doing it with his own two hands.”

“A handler getting his hands dirty. Who’d have thought.” Peter glanced into the prop dumpster and out to the alley’s opening before hefting the waiter into the dumpster for safekeeping. His own suit jacket and pants were folded neatly and placed inside a white plastic bag that had been in the waiter’s pocket. A novel use for a doggy bag he assumed.

“You’d be surprised, man. Also, bullet-point Two-A, I’m kinda messing with the audio recordings to keep us from getting in trouble so less talking, please. Wouldn’t want them to start punishing our tech crew for the abundance of static.”

‘Less talking’ instead of ‘no talking’. An interesting distinction.

Walking into the kitchen of the first floor restaurant, Peter deliberately smirked in the direction of the next camera he saw without looking at it directly. He heard a huff that might have been stiffed laughter while he kept out of the on duty manager’s line of sight. (Management actually knew their employees faces and would likely notice a new one, everyone else would just assume ‘new hire’ or ‘switched shift’. He wondered once again how he’d learned all of this in the first place.)

Finding a tray, he followed another waiter up the back staircase to the roof three floors up. The party was already in full swing, packed with chatting groups interspersed with people trying to dance to whatever the live DJ was currently playing.

Making the rounds with his tray, Peter carefully moderated his posture and his expression to match the carefully polite and socially invisible waitstaff. He carefully maintained the illusion as a woman passed by and the handler spoke up.

“That is your target, Miss Stacey Caldwell.” The tone was once again scripted and formal. Peter found that the stale formality grated a little, which was surprising considering how much the slang had initially bothered him. He thought about it as he paused to let the target pass, his back to her as he allowed a guest to take one of the last glasses from his tray.

No, he decided, it wasn’t that he suddenly liked the informal nicknames. It was probably just the flimsy cardboard cutout interactions that the script seemed to lead to that bothered him.

Turning to the bar and incidentally following the target, he wandered over to pick up a fresh tray and leave his to be refilled. While swapping them out, he got close enough to pick out the conversation the woman was having with her personal assistant.

“-ld be wearing a blue suit with a leopard print cowboy hat.” Peter kept himself from making a face only through what he assumed was years of practice. The assistant didn’t have that kind of experience, but Caldwell didn’t seem to mind.

“I know, right? Gross.” A moment of shared disgust passed before she continued her previous train of thought. “Anyway, be sure to grab him as soon as he makes it to the meet up point and bring him down to my office. I would meet him here, but I’ve got to close the sale on the Jameson house and they said they’d get back to me no later than eight.”

“Of course, Miss Caldwell.” The reply was prompt, but what followed was hesitant. “Where is the, um, the meet up poi-”

Cutting off her assistant with an aggravated sigh, the target pointed to a corner of the roof, just behind the DJ’s setup. “In the corner over there. And for God’s sake don’t forget the response! It needs to match!”

“Right. ‘ _All the better to see you with, my dear.’_ I’ve got it.”

“Not - ugh, never mind.” Caldwell stalked off, not even looking at the bouncer she passed on her way down a more private staircase almost exactly between the service stairwell and the larger set the guests were arriving by.

“We’re supposed to give you hints about what to do, but they kind of hit you in the face with that one, huh?” The voice in his ear sounded as unimpressed by the acting as Peter was. It was a bit more lively as the handler continued. “Then again, so far as I know we’ve never had anyone use quick-change method before so you could continue to surprise me.”

Considering another quick-change was how he was hoping to get the target alone, the handler might be disappointed with his repeated tactics. He shrugged the unconscious need to rise to the challenge off. There was truth to the phrase ‘if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it’ and Peter had few compunctions against stealing identities in the short term for personal gain.

Making his way towards the public stairs, he handed out glasses before setting the tray and remaining glasses down on a buffet table. With a confident stride he made his way down the public stairs, wearing a charming smile for any guests who might wonder why he wasn’t using the service stairs.

As he reached the bottom a flash of leopard caught his attention. Peter obliquely moved toward the ‘client’, picking up a nearly empty glass of what looked like a spiked lemonade as he did. The table’s usual waiter flashed him a smile as they passed him to place the diner’s refill in it’s place. Peter ignored the guest’s cheerful wonder at the restaurants teamwork, instead focusing on looking like he wasn’t paying attention just long enough to bump into another man.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Pulling a cloth napkin from his vest pocket, Peter attempted to clean the very blue jacket he’d just wet. “Please, the restroom is right this way. Allow me to make amends by helping you clean this up.”

The target’s client wasn’t rude enough to interrupt Peter’s unending apologies as the candidate steered him into the bathroom. Sometimes he was amazed at what social engineering could accomplish.

Another clean knockout in an empty bathroom was easy as pie and soon a partially clothed client found his way into the connected storage closet.

“Seriously, if Danny gets his hands on this footage, if there is even a whisper of what he missed out on by not being the temp-hand, my body may never be found. I won’t even wash up on some shore in a few years, I’d just vanish like I never existed.” The voice in his ear paused before changed from a droll monotone to a musing stream of consciousness.

“I wonder how long it would take him to convince my dad that I’d been a particularly vivid hallucination? I mean, Danny’d have all electronic evidence of my life gone in minutes, but the number of heart palpitations I’ve caused would surely give up the game. How would he have survived so many of them if his caring son wasn’t force-feeding him healthy food?”

Suit acquired and currently in use. Now for the final touch.

Making a face at the client’s obnoxiously loud hat, Peter gingerly placed it on his head and prayed to any higher power that was listening that he wouldn’t get lice from this atrocity. He then took advantage of the locked room to answer the handler’s hypothetical question.

“Palpitations and dietary changes can be caused by hallucinations. However, it would probably take clearing out all physical evidence before your father really started questioning your existence.”

“That’s true.”

The muted scratch of fingernails against skin accompanied the response. Scratching his chin maybe? Peter found himself unconsciously mimicking the imagined gesture and grimaced. If he did somehow contract lice he was going to figure out how to sue the company.

“I’ve got way too many posters and DVDs that he would have never bought himself just collecting dust in his attic.” The handler continued, not commenting on Peter taking the time to wash his hands before he left the bathroom.

The unrepentant snort he heard as he stepped out of the bathroom wasn’t unexpected, though perhaps a little late.

“Nice hat, dude. Now you just need a cane and you can start your new job managing ‘ladies of the night’.”

Light-fingered as ever, Peter snagged a walking stick from a decorative umbrella stand on his way back to the public staircase. His handler’s laughter was loud and bright in his ear for about three seconds before it cut off to an almost unnatural quiet. Guessing what had caused that, Peter smirked to himself (and the camera in the corner of the stairwell) as he lazily twirled the cane once or twice in the relatively open space.

He was nearly to the meeting point when he heard some carefully controlled breathing in his ear.

“Hoo boy, okay. A sense of humor! I wasn’t expecting it, but you won’t hear me complaining.” The next few breaths were a little shaky as his handler seemingly reigned in his laughter again. “I think this is the most fun I’ve ever had as a handler, dude. Keep this up and you’re going to be my favorite.”

Peter’s smirk, which he’d nearly contained behind a polite smile, bloomed into a smug grin as he looked out at the ‘night sky’ of painted plywood from the corner of the rooftop.

“Oh, sweetheart,” his voice was barely audible above the DJ’s mix. “I already am.”

“On your five.” The response was professional, but unscripted and Peter thought that the tone his handler used might be termed as ‘fond’. Without any time to dwell on that nor the number of authentic smiles he’d found himself wearing on his interview to be a contract killer, Peter expertly smoothed his face into one of polite disinterest before turning to lean on the fence surrounding the rooftop party.

The PA was there, he watched her silently as she approached.

“My what big eyes you have.”

A children’s story? Really? Who picked this?

“All the better to see you with, my dear.” Dear God he hoped the writers of this script would be his first contract because there were now _recordings_ of him saying this. The voice in his ear snickered to prove it.

The PA let out a sigh of relief, but didn’t relax as she gestured him to follow her.

“Miss Caldwell is waiting for you downstairs Mister Butcher.”

Was this a trial to see how one reacted in the face of bad writing? ‘Mister Butcher’ was the best they could come up with? Peter nodded without further comment and followed the woman down the private staircase.

There were more bodyguards on this floor, but they all let them pass without issue and Peter soon found himself let into the woman’s office.

“Of course.” The target was on the phone, possibly finishing up judging by her tone. She waved him to a seat as she walked around her desk towards the door. “Thank you again, Mister Jameson. We’ll get the paperwork to you tomorrow.”

Caldwell made some motions to her PA to have her step outside, but it eventually took her physically pushing the poor woman to get her out. Once that was done Caldwell pointed her down the hall and shut the door, leaving the two of them alone.

“Yes, a pleasure doing business. I’m sorry to rush you off the phone, but my next appointment is here. I’m sure you understand.” ‘Playfully’ rolling her eyes with a plastic smile in his direction, she mouthed a ‘sorry’ to him. “Exactly. Thanks again. Have a good night, Mister Jameson. Yes, you too. Goodbye.”

Hanging up, the woman smiled at him again before once again gesturing to the seat he hadn’t yet taken.

“Please, have a seat Mister Butcher and we’ll get started.”

Peter’s answering smile showed just a few too many teeth to be considered ‘nice’ - he was impersonating someone who needed a money-laundering service after all - and moved as if to take the seat. As soon as her back was to him, his arm was at her throat. Carefully lowering her to the ground, he considered the simulation.

“I would normally snap her neck, but obviously that isn’t how we’re doing things here.” He picked her up and moved over to a decorative chest she had in the corner of the room. It had some cloth samples lining the bottom, but had plenty of room for him to hide her in. “Is stating it enough or is there something else I should be doing to confirm the ‘kill’?”

“Good enough for me,” came the reply.

“Thanks for not actually murdering her. Every once in a while we get some asshole who ‘believed the simulation’ too much or ‘didn’t know their own strength’.” His handler sounded like the type to make air quotes as he dryly mocked previous candidates.

Peter found the dismissively scathing tone delightfully amusing.

“I mean, if you don’t know your own strength to the point where you’re never sure if you’re going to straight up murder the next person you touch, why would we hire you?” The voice in his ear seemed to scoff at the remembered excuses. “We might be an amoral company, but we have standards.”

Content with knowing his target had been sufficiently ‘killed’, Peter quietly enjoyed his handler’s ranting as he made his way to the large window and carefully opened both the blinds and the window itself. They both opened without too much noise and he smirked as he confirmed his suspicion. Careful not to go too fast and rattle the ‘metal’ plates, he swung himself out onto the plywood fire escape.

Once the blinds and windows were back in their original positions (Not locked, unfortunately. No weapons meant no knives after all), Peter quietly moved down the stairs until he reached the lowest rung. Extending the ladder would bring someone to investigate so he just let himself drop in a controlled fall.

He landed about three feet from his suit and pants. He stared at the bag thoughtfully before shrugging.

“I can’t believe you!” His handler sounded somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “You are absolutely trying to murder me. Is this revenge? Did you plan this the entire time? Was this all just an elaborate ploy to kill me off in the most round about way possible?”

Peter chuckled lowly as he finished passing his belt through the loops on his slacks.

“Or is this just your way of flirting?” His handler sounded more indignant than flattered and Peter started to wonder if he should be offended. “Because, let me just be clear, trying to seduce your handler in a job interview doesn’t sound very smart and I’m going to be mad if you prove my initial assessment of you wrong.”

The backhanded complement had Peter leaning in to the last assumption just to see what his handler’s reaction would be.

“Trust me, darling. If I were trying to seduce you-” Peter sent a leer at the camera at the end of the alley as he sauntered out in his original suit. “-you’d know it.”

“Oh, is that how it is?” His handler’s sarcasm still held an edge of laughter. “Alright. Good luck with that one, dude.”

Peter smiled at the actress across the way once again as he made his way towards the end of the ‘road’.

“Right.” Becoming serious and cardboard-esque again, his handler cleared his throat. The man had obviously remembered that they needed to finish the script. “Now that your objective is complete, please proceed to any of the vehicles provided for extraction and press the red button to end the simulation.”

A car was parked not ten feet from where he was, so he simply continued forward until he could press the button.

“Well done, candidate. Your target was eliminated and your objectives completed. The board will review the footage shortly and then you will be informed of your results.” Peter heard the squeak of a desk chair which likely meant his handler had leaned back from the script. “Seriously, good job, dude. I think that this nastily exhausting test deserves an Exceeds Expectations.”

“Not an Outstanding though?” Peter rubbed his head at the sudden ache he felt. Why he was able to remember things like a popular book series with just a little prompting but nothing about his life before the hospital? It was an increasingly annoying problem. The question he’d addressed at his handler earned him another honey-rich chuckle though, so it was a little bit worth the pain. Just a little.

“Good luck, man. I’m not in charge of the rest of the scoring, but here’s hoping I see you on the other side.”

There was a faint click as the transmission cut off and Peter was once again alone on a fake street, waiting for his next instructions.

* * *

“It was pretty innovative, honestly. Not sure how many other candidates or currently employed hitmen would have jumped to swapping clothes that fast, if they'd even think of it at all.”

“Then your recommendation is?”

“Pass.”

“Even with the his self proclaimed amnesia?”

“It didn't seem like he was bluffing and he's got the skills to make it.”

“Hmm. Well, he hasn't asked for help finding his previous life, but Candidate 62 has shown a marked interest in the files we'd already made on his previous hits. We'll let him find the wiped trail at the hospital on his own, but we can try to use the files as leverage if necessary.”

“So he's in then?”

“For now.”

* * *

From: Stilinski, Stiles  
To: Mahealani, Danny  
Subject: RE: Hottie's Body

Dude, I'm not his regular. I'm just a stand in. Please don't kill me if I'm not there when he strips next. Just set up something to send you the feeds after his missions or something!

Stiles

> Sent: Wednesday, June 14th at 13:42 (3 minutes ago)  
>  From: Mahealani, Danny  
>  To: Stilinski, Stiles  
>  Subject: RE: Hottie's Body
> 
> Thank you for coming to me with this matter. Understand that your continued status among the living is only due to the fact that you took the initiative to send me these instead of trying to hide them. Your status can change if you don't keep me up to date when possible.
> 
> D

> > Sent: Wednesday, June 14th at 13:18 (27 minutes ago)  
>  From: Stilinski, Stiles  
>  To: Mahealani, Danny  
>  Subject: Hottie's Body  
>  Attachments: pls_dont_kill_stiles 3 MB, 4srs 2 MB, keepStilesAlive 3 MB
>> 
>> Danny,
>> 
>> I didn't ask him to do this. Files attached for your viewing pleasure. No audio, sorry.
>> 
>> Remember that you like me, you spent countless hours training with me, and Lydia will be very disappointed if we spill any blood in the office.
>> 
>> Stiles


	2. Switched Up

Peter was already crouched beside the bed, gun in hand, before he was fully awake. Resisting the urge to yawn, he listened intently for what woke him up. Outside in the hall, he could faintly hear retreating footsteps. Focusing on the sound, he watched as the bland wallpaper on his hotel room wall seemed to lighten, looking more like a flat fog than a wall. He ignored the outlines of his fellow guests in favor of a man who was nearly to the elevator bank. The figure's outfit was as inoffensive as the rest of the hotel staff, consisting of simple slacks and a button down, but he couldn't make out any other features.

Within a few seconds the man was gone and only the hum of the air conditioner could be heard. A blink later and Peter's view of the room returned to normal.

Unable to resist it any longer, Peter yawned wide enough that he had to blink away the wetness in his eyes. Cautiously standing up, he head for the door and whatever had been shoved through the gap at the bottom. It'd been the noise of sliding paper against tile that had woken him up in the first place.

Was it the receipt or a note? A receipt was more likely if it actually was from the hotel staff; he was going to check out today, but they had assured him that the receipt would be emailed, so what could they have given him?

Flipping on the bathroom's light, he squinted reflexively as his eyes adjusted.

A manila folder, apparently.

ICA then, using one of their many runners. They'd never taken much care to blend in before, but there was a first time for everything. If he was lucky, the folder would contain a note telling him that Myers wouldn't be able to handle his next mission due to terminal case of stupidity.

Picking it up, Peter's brow furrowed a bit in confusion. The manila folder was standard, but the hot pink post-it on the front was not. It was, however, addressed to the name the ICA knew him by.

 _Ian,_  
_I heard you'd been asking for these. It's tough getting them without being noticed, but I'll send them along as I can._

It was unsigned, but it was handwritten. Peter habitually committed it to memory before carefully opening the folder. He skimmed through half the page before realizing what he had in his hands.

It was one of the documented kills he'd sent the agency as part of his 'resume'.

Before he'd lost everything.

Starting again and reading more carefully, Peter soaked in as much as he could. The names, dates, destination, method, he waited for any of them to spark some kind of memory. Judging by the date, it had taken place nearly a month to the day before he'd woken up in that hospital without a clue who he was. It'd only taken him another three and a half months to get this first scrap of information back.

Not that it seemed to be helping his recall. It was so close, but while the files were giving him a severe case of déjà vu, he couldn't quite recall anything beyond what was laid out. It was almost felt as if he were reeling in memories with this document as the fishing line, but the memories themselves were fighting him.

Peter frowned at the fishing analogy, before glancing at the television and blaming it on the program he'd turned on to cover the sounds of him preparing for his next mission. The reminder had him checking the bedside clock before glancing back down at the files. Just over two hours left before his alarm was set to go off.

Files or sleep.

Closing his eyes, Peter let his head tilt slightly to one side as he took a deep breath through his nose and weighed the consequences of both. On the one hand, he had just been 'gifted' some of the information he joined for. On the other two hours of sleep could sometimes make or break a tense situation.

Information at the cost of possibly being too tired to finish a mission, possibly to a lethal degree, or only having time to skim the provided documents before he had to get rid of them.

Peter ran his tongue across his teeth as he looked back down at the folder. The decision came down to what he could afford to lose. Less sleep had a _chance_ of endangering his life, but this would likely be his only time to work with these documents. Without a secure place to hide them, he was going to have to dispose of them before anyone else could stumble upon the information.

Flipping off the bathroom light, Peter retreated further into his hotel room wondering exactly how tired he was if he was wasting time debating an inevitable conclusion. He dropped the folder down on the desk and checked that the heavy drapes were still covering the window entirely before dropping into the desk chair and flicking on the lamp.

This was why he agreed to join the ICA in the first place, he was going to learn as much as he could while he still had the chance. If that made him a little waspish on the mission tomorrow, well, it's not like Myers' doesn't deserve it.

* * *

Another day, another dollar; another contract, another kill.

Maybe even two kills.

A two for one special, if you will. Buy one, get one free!

Actually, the contract might have the strangest non-target kill Stiles had ever heard of if the baby agent he was handling didn’t get a move on. Spinning in his chair, he imagined the after-mission report that would be given to his agent.

‘The target was taken out and all objectives were complete, but your handler died of boredom waiting for you to get out of that utilities closet, so we’ll need to dock your pay.’

Blowing out a gusty sigh, Stiles let his chair spin one more full revolution before a belated thought had him snapping his head up to look at his headset interface. Muted. Good, that’s what he thought. He slouched back down and surveyed the five by five wall of security monitors in front of him.

Baby Agent 43 didn’t deserve this nor his sighs, really. It wasn’t her fault that the crime lord’s lackeys were taking so long to clean up the body of their chemist that she’d eliminated so handily nearly - he squinted in the direction of the wall clock - thirty-three minutes ago. Okay, she might deserve it a little, but it wasn’t like she knew his assistant was about to come running around the corner babbling about a breakthrough. That closet she was hiding in would have been the perfect place to stash the body if she’d had another minute to herself.

So now they were waiting.

It wasn't even that Stiles wasn't used to waiting (God was he used to waiting), but waiting in this room with so many things he needed to do anywhere except this room was difficult. He was getting antsy to the point where he was seriously considering twiddling his thumbs just to see what all the hype was about.

Stiles scanned the cameras views again to see if one of his six plotted exit routes had opened up yet. Just as he was toying with the thought of challenging himself to find another two, movement from one of the screens along the bottom of his ‘wall’ had Stiles sitting up and unmuting himself.

“Hope you’re ready to move Agent 43, because we’re about to get a golden opportunity.”

The closet was too dark for him to pick up anything from the agent’s camera, but the shuffle of movement over the mic made it clear he was heard. From the camera in the empty hall he saw the closet door move ever so slightly.

“Ready.” Credit where credit was due, Baby Agent sounded just as alert as she had at the beginning of the mission.

“Good. The route to the roof is going to be clear soon. Start making your way up now and I’ll let you know if you’ve got to do your ninja thing.”

The puff of air he heard over the comms might have been a laugh or just a product of the door swinging open, but Stiles was pretty sure it was the former. She’d smiled at his initial reaction to her athletic abilities and Stiles thought it was a funny guy in general, so it wasn’t a huge leap.

No, the huge leap was the one Baby Agent took as she parkoured her way around a thug who was watching the stairs. Stiles whistled lowly as she pulled herself up over the railing of a walkway that had very recently been four feet and half a floor away.

“Props to your mad upper-body strength. Glad to see you aren’t skipping arm day.”

She didn’t respond (she was such a good Baby Agent), but he caught her smile on one of the security cameras as she finished her light jog up the final set of stairs. Speaking of cameras, it was time to start cleaning up the last of their footage before she left as his mostly wireless ‘in’ was going with her. Stiles kept an eye on the last two thugs closest to Baby Agent’s exit as he got to work on that.

“Hope you weren’t lying on your CV because you’re looking at your way out of here.”

Baby Agent hesitated just a moment, probably trying to figure out if this particular ultralight could be flown using her commercial license, but she recovered quickly and was soon making her way across the helipad.

“They just gassed it up so you should be able to get out of there no problem. I’ve already convinced the closest airspace operator that the pre-flight checks are done so once you’ve verified it for yourself, you’re good to go.” Stiles loved that text-to-speech program Danny’d made for them last year, it’s nice to not have to juggle too many spoken conversations at once. Ones with the local airspace authority were always so boring anyway.

Within minutes, Baby Agent was ready to fly and she had the helicopter lifting off just in time. A few cronies were making their way to the roof now that they realized no one from their group was at the helicopter’s controls, but by the time they reached the helipad Agent 43 was just a speck on the horizon.

“Good job out there, Agent 43. The target is down and all objectives were completed.” The traditional closer fell from his lips automatically, but the leg that’d fallen asleep because he’d been sitting so long had him tacking on a teasing, "Might want to work on that timing thing though, dude.”

“I thought watching for interruptions was your job?” came the amused rejoinder.

His offended look, complete with a hand to his chest, went unappreciated in the empty room.

“Excuse me? Who told you about it fast enough that you could hide out in the closet? How was I supposed to know the chem team only had one brain between them and that killing their leader would somehow make the rest of them smart enough to actually do science once he was dead?” He was kind of glad no one was here because his hands got a little wild for someone who wasn’t talking to anyone face-to-face.

 _Jinxed it_ , he thought as he heard someone clearing their throat behind him.

Flailing a bit, Stiles whipped around. One hand banged against the underside of the desk even as his other scrabbled for a firmer grip on the desk chair, eventually curling around one side if it and he clutched the back for stability.

“Don’t do that!”

Deaton gave him an unimpressed look even as Baby Agent’s made a sharp questioning noise.

“Not you, Agent. Hold on a sec.” Fingers still stinging from the table, Stiles pressed the mute button before frowning at his boss. “I know I’ve asked you to stop sneaking up on me. Getting spooked is what gets me injured!”

“I did knock.” The older man gestured to the door even as he stepped further into the room. “I believe you were distracted with your hive brain hypothesis?”

Grumbling incoherently, Stiles pushed the chair away from the desk to face Deaton. The older man wasn’t known for being lively, but something was different. More tension in the shoulders, a tightening around the eyes, the actual attempt at warning instead of just watching him jump? Eyes narrowed, Stiles used his go-to interrogation technique.

“What’s up?” It always surprised him how much information some people just gave away if you asked.

“Since you’ve finished up with Agent 43, I’d like you to take over another mission in progress.”

“In progress? Did the handler pass out or something? Wait, is this another bathroom break situation? I swear, if I need to have another ‘go before the mission’ talk with...” Stiles’ slightly sarcastic rant trailed off in the face of Deaton’s patented unimpressed stare. The older man’s tension hadn’t gone away, but he also hadn’t cut Stiles off so it wasn’t an _emergency_. Still, better to get going before his boss tried to make him go back to that training for office professionals.

“I mean, yeah, duh. Of course I’ll take it, obviously. Like I’d leave a mission without a handler.” Already unhooking his laptop from the station, Stiles rolled his eyes his own inevitable answer. If a mission needed him and he was available, he was on it.

It wasn’t often that liaisons switched off in the middle of a mission. They were professionals who _supposedly_ knew what they were getting into and had proven themselves. Having to change while the objectives were in motion wasn’t unheard of, but it was never a good thing.

Changeovers usually resulted in black marks on the initial handler’s record. Then again, avoiding the hand-off had previously lead to the death of an agent or two.

Stiles wasn’t one to take chances when someone’s life was in his hands. Any further blood on them was going to be a conscious decision, not something he realized only in hindsight.

“I can go now if you don’t mind finishing up?” Stiles gestured vaguely to the monitor array that was still showing Baby Agent’s progress and let himself relax a little at Deaton’s calm nod. As one of the higher ups Deaton couldn’t take over missions in progress due to time constraints and possible emergencies, but closing a report of an already completed mission was thankfully something he could still do.

Reaching over to the back of the desk, Stiles flipped the switch to bring up the server-based, generic log-in Deaton could use to finish up since he'd be taking his laptop with him. That settled, he took himself off mute to address the baby agent who’d been silent on the comms.

“Agent 43, something came up and I’m needed on another mission. I’m handing you over to Deaton for the follow up report and landing.”

Baby Agent’s audible gulp at having to report to a board member would normally amuse him, but Stiles was too busy worrying as he switched off the headset to free up the line for Deaton.

“I’m sure you already know the mission number, but I wrote it down on that post-it if you need it.” Stiles flapped a hand at the vibrantly pink post-it on the desk just to see if Deaton would flinch as violently at the color as some of the others did.

He didn’t.

A little disappointed, but unsurprised Stiles asked, “Where is it?”

“Room twelve. You’ll be taking over Mission H-AF 62.05.2.2103.”

“Got it.” Everything he needed for the swap in hand (or on head in his headset’s case), Stiles made for the door with a distracted wave. “Spare headsets are in the second drawer on the right.”

“Use the elevator, Stiles.” Deaton called after him.

It was a very conscious decision to turn towards the stairs. He’ll have to take it slower now that he was crutchless, but there was no way he was taking an elevator for just a few floors. Not when he knew exactly how easy it was to override the things.

Room twelve was a whole three hallways and two floors away so Stiles used that time to muse over what he knew of the mission from the number system to try and work out why he was needed on such short notice.

Dropping the ID from the end, that would make it a middling difficulty hit contract assigned to Danny’s mister hot stuff himself with only two objectives. If there was any other support staff, he’d have to check it in the file, but all of them were being handled by whoever was currently assigned to room twelve.

The numbered rooms were for new hires, short-term temp handlers, and temporary spaces for anyone who needed out of their usual room for one reason or another.

Actually...

Nearly tripping up the stairs, he wrestled his work phone from his pocket to check his hunch. Danny spotted him as they approached the same staircase from different ends and raised his brows at Stiles’ loud groan of dismayed realization.

“Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

“You’re right.” Stiles replied agreeably as he stood to the side on the lower landing for the hacking specialist to pass. His voice flattened to match his expression. “It’s worse.”

Used to his coworker’s compulsive need to only sweat the small stuff (and, conversely, treat anything of actual importance more seriously), Danny obligingly tilted his head questioningly.

“Myers.”

Hissing in legitimate sympathy, Danny recovered quickly then shrugged and threw a roguish smile over his shoulder.

“Better you than me!”

That earned him a dirty look before Stiles moved to continue to the next floor. He hesitated two steps up, looking back down the stairs after Danny before shaking it off and carefully finishing his trek to the next floor.

Wanting to bang his head against a wall or, more preferably, hunt down the one who decided _Myers_ should be allowed to handle hits and bang _their_ head against a wall, Stiles continued down the final hall. He could feel a headache coming on even at this distance.

Myers wasn’t _the_ worst handler possible – simply because Stiles didn't know of any that the ICA had on staff at the moment, he'll admit that it didn't mean Myers couldn't be better than some of those at rival agencies - but he did have more than a few habits that routinely got on the nerves of many of his associates. Especially those who appreciated the creative freedom the companies more lax contracts afforded them.

“No! What do...”

Ugh. Stiles didn’t even want to think about how loud Myers must sound through Agent 62′s earpiece if the man could be heard in the hall through a closed door. Hand on the doorknob, Stiles tried to wipe the mild contempt from his expression. The smile he halfheartedly shot for was probably more like a grimace, but it would have to do. Bracing himself, he opened the door to room twelve.

“-re doing?! Don’t just stand there!” Myers was standing in front of the desk, his hands ostensibly braced on it. (With all the paper, take-out containers, and ~~was that a porn mag?~~ _other_ undesirable items littering the surface, Stiles couldn’t be sure.) However, he could say with absolute confidence that it was a good thing most agents didn’t know where the liaisons were located because while footage of Agent 62′s face read polite interest, the slightly unfocused look in those dark blue eyes was closer to one planning a messy murder.

Maybe Stiles was projecting.

He walked a bit closer until he was just behind Myers’ abandoned chair. Tilting his head a bit, Stiles squinted a little at the screen as his bottom lip pushed up into a contemplative frown.

 _Nah_.

“The second target needs to be eliminated before their security evacs them out of this place!” The greasy man was on a roll so Stiles escalated his attempts to get his attention from pointed coughs to calling his name. The man ignored him, somehow continuing to find new lows in Stiles’ esteem.

“We have maybe ten minutes to find them and you’re just wasting time in a bathroom! When this is over I’m going-”

“Myers!”

The man startled so hard two (hopefully) empty take away boxes and a (thankfully) lidded, unfinished bottle of something fell off the desk as he whipped around. If this happened to any of their more competent coworkers, Stiles might have actually felt bad about it. As it was, his smile was a lot more genuine now.

“Stiles!”

Scratch that, no smiles for idiots. Especially not idiots who get spittle on your face.

Stiles flailed back a little as it hit him, a hand coming up to wipe the saliva from his face before stopping as he realized he didn’t want it on his hands. Standing with his hand awkwardly hanging in the air, he glanced around for something to get the stuff off his face before remembering the state of the room around him. With another sickened look at Myers, Stiles sacrificed a sleeve to clean off his face.

“Could you maybe not?” His disgusted question went unanswered as Myers babbled almost nervously.

“What are you doing in here? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a mission? You can’t just come barging in when people-”

“Deaton sent me!” Pained grimace clearing a bit as Stiles realized that his interjection had successfully stopped the rant that had been escalating an eardrum-breaking volume, the younger man continued, “I’m here to take over H-AF 2103.”

“Why? We’re doing perfectly fine!”

That outrageous lie earned Myers a flat look complete with judgmental eyebrows. Stiles turned to look at the agent who was still hiding out in a bathroom. The younger man was a little impressed; he hadn’t been aware that much patronizing surprise could even be physically expressed. He let his eyes flick obviously back and forth between the handler and the monitor grid before settling back on Myers with a shrug.

“Take it up with Deaton, man.” Dismissing the man instead of arguing further, Stiles moved to swap out their laptops. The cables were thankfully clear in the disaster area that was room twelve’s desk. When he finished the swap he turned and had to stop short as he found Myers hovering almost uncertainly behind him.

A quick side-step around the man and Stiles was in range to grab the phone extension and sync his headset. Or, well, he should have been. Instead, he could barely see the phone at all under all the debris. Gingerly snagging an unopened water bottle, he pushed some of the garbage around trying to find the device only to give up when he knocked even more used food containers off the desk and unfortunately confirmed the existence of at least two porn mags. That earned Myers another look.

The man cleared his throat self-importantly, but when he spoke it was with a distinctly higher tone than usual.

“Like I said, we’re doing fine. We just have a little time-crunch that I’m sure I can-”

“I believe you,” Stiles interrupted, giving up entirely on finding the phone. Instead, he forced himself to lay a ‘companionable’ hand on the man’s shoulder and then used the grip to start moving the man as he continued, voice as sincere as he could make it. (He gave it a solid six out of ten on the Scott Scale.) “But when a member of the board asks you to do something, people like us don’t really have a say, do we? I’m sure you understand.”

“Well, yes, but-”

“I knew you would, bud.” Stiles stopped to pat Myers on the shoulder amiably. “Thanks for helping a coworker not get fired.”

Whatever the man had to say in response to that was cut off by the door shutting in his face. Locking it, Stiles completed his semi-hostile takeover by placing a nearby chair under the handle to keep the door shut if Myers went so far as to use his key.

As he turned back to the desk, Stiles kept his eyes on Agent 62 and willed him to not get into trouble as he finished setting himself up. Grabbing his laptop off of the thankfully clean desk chair, he sat down and ran through the connection processes as fast as he could. It seemed like Myers’ continued ranting from the other side of the door had a thin silver lining as Agent 62 looked ready to continue waiting out the man’s ravings in the bathroom. Deciding to fix that first, Stiles bypassed the missing office phone and connected to the agent’s earpiece directly through his computer.

* * *

This 'liaison' (No, Peter wasn't over the ICA's 'clean' word for handler) continued to be the most uninspired person that Peter had ever had the misfortune of having to interact with. Not that it would be saying much, but Peter was almost desperately hoping that the boorish man was an outlier when compared to the rest of the human race. He turned the sneer that broke through his feigned patience into a show of checking his teeth in the bathroom’s mirror.

“-et me in this instant! I need to finish the mission! Agent 62 needs me!”

Peter couldn’t stop the derisive huff from hissing through his teeth. There were very few things he needed this man to do and none of them were very good for the handler’s continued existence.

The earpiece picked up the muffled sound of someone banging on a door. Pausing, Peter shifted his focus to verify that it was only over his radio. The bathroom almost seemed to dim as he trained his senses on the hall.

Empty. Good.

After rolling his shoulders to keep himself loose, Peter then checked the time. If the impressively incompetent man had been right about the timing, he had about seven minutes left to find and eliminate the second target.

Not for the first time, he wished that these contracts came with pictures for the agents to view as well as those the handlers got. If he knew what the man looked like he would have turned off the earpiece within the first five minutes of the mission and it would have been done by now. Instead, he was stuck waiting for the man who walked him right into a pack of security guards to calm down enough to help him finish the contract.

“I’ll remember this, Stiles! See what happens the next time I run one of-”

His earpiece went quiet.

Peter went from agitatedly stretching his neck to alert readiness in the blink of an eye. Eyes narrowing, he checked the room for any jammers or strange electronics and then focused on the hall again.

Still nothing.

There was a light pop in the earpiece followed by the faint sound of someone typing.

“Agent 62?”

While he made sure to show no visible reaction, Peter’s curiosity spiked. He’d thought known the intruder's voice over Myers' line when he caught a snatch of it earlier. He was right, as usual.

But, he also knew better than to trust anything at face value.

“And who might this be?” Peter kept his voice low in case anyone unexpected came down the hall.

There was a slight pause on the line, but a few quiet clicks of a mouse later he heard his handler reply.

“Your replacement handler, Agent 62. Myers had to... step away.” Peter raised a brow at the obvious implication and vaguely wondered what it said about him when the thought of the previous handler being so ominously taken care of had him suppressing what he knew would be a vicious smirk.

There was a slight huff. His new handler seemed to have reconsidered the wording in the face of Peter’s silent imaginings.

“It’s Stiles, dude. Higher-ups asked me to take over because Myers is an ass.”

“How kind of them.” Peter allowed his sardonic tone speak volumes on how kind he really thought those of the ICA’s upper echelon really were.

“‘Kind’. Yeah, let’s go with that.” It sounded like Stiles believed it just as much as Peter did. “Anyway, Myers kinda exaggerated the time-frame on that evac, but according to local radio chatter, it doesn’t sound like it was by much. You guys really kicked the anthill with that first hit.”

"Myers insisted on the place and time, unfortunately. It seems agents on their third contract aren’t given much creative freedom.” Yes, Peter was aware that he sounded defensive over this. But, seeing as he’d argued against the plan he was eventually threatened into enacting, Peter just wanted to give credit where credit was due.

‘Cover Your Ass’ was a policy Peter lived and let other people die by.

The resigned sigh from his handler made the remote man’s opinion on the matter clear.

“I thought that might be part of the problem.” The clicks of the keyboard and mouse were louder now, sounding almost frustrated. “At least you're still whole and hale after all of that.”

Seconds passed in tense silence before they both nearly-simultaneously pushed it aside; Peter finally opening the bathroom door as his handler took on a more professional tone.

“The remaining target isn’t too far from your current location, Agent. However, they are surrounded by security.” Stiles paused, sounding like he was tapping on a desk or possibly on his laptop as he thought. “Were you in this outfit when the bees began to swarm?”

“No.” If he was a little smug, he was sure he could be forgiven. Listening to Myers blow his top at the outfit swap had been so satisfying after all the trouble the contemptible man had necessitated the change in the first place. “I happened to snag one of the higher level members of the security team on my way into the bathroom.”

“Agent Quick-Change strikes again!” His handler sounded both slightly impressed and thoroughly amused. Peter allowed himself a quick moment to preen at that before smoothing his face back into a bodyguard’s impassive implication of carefully restrained force as he walked into one of the gallery’s more populated halls.

“Seriously, nice forethought on that, dude.”

The slang had Peter's jaw tensing a little before he pushed it aside. If the continued use of nicknames and slang even when not in a 'training' mission was as far as this handler's unprofessionalism went, Stiles could call him whatever he wanted.

Not that Peter would ever tell him that, especially not unprompted.

“You’ve got one guarded staircase,” his handler continued, “and roughly five other lower level lackeys to get through to even see the guy. Hope you’ve stashed your usual gun somewhere, cause they’re searching _everyone_. They’ll probably catch anything unusual.”

The silenced pistol under his suit jacket needed to go then.

Peter casually stepped into the next men’s room and had the smuggled gun hidden in seconds. A perfunctory flush and quick wash of his hands, saw the whole detour finished within the minute.

His handler was mercifully unobtrusive, something he’d missed on the missions he’d had since his final ‘interview’. Apparently, most of the ICA’s more murderous agents were assigned to a specific liaison who would, according to the man who hired him, establish a rapport with them and learn how to best direct a specific agents talents.

As far as Peter could tell, his assignment to Myers had only taught the handler which threats Peter would actually bend to as opposed to those he'd easily ignore. The ones where the ICA would hand him over to local authorities with the recorded proof of his kills was particularly effective as he could recall a clause to that effect in his contract. Myers shouldn’t have possessed the authority to get it carried out, but it was better to err on the side of caution until Peter could confirm.

Shortly after he passed the security checkpoint at the bottom of the stairs, Stiles quietly broke the silence.

“He can’t actually do any of that shit, you know.”

Peter’s jaw tensed again and the world seemed to slow just a little as he inadvertently focused all his senses in response to the comment his handler unknowingly wielded with pinpoint accuracy.

Which was probably the best reaction he could have had as there was an enforcer around the corner who would have called out Peter's disguise if he didn’t bypass that route. Breathing deeply, he slipped into a room just off the stairs and cut through it.

“I’ve played back the recordings from the first target to try and see who might recognize you, though...” The trailing pause sounded more curious than suspicious as Stiles must have realized what Peter’d done. “It looks like you have that handled.”

Unable to respond in a hallway with three other guards Peter just tilted his head ever so slightly, arching a brow to try and convey his 'Does it look like I need assistance?'. He couldn't tell if the message was received or if there were even any cameras around to send it as the handler moved on without comment.

“Anyway, that whole ‘I’ll get you locked up if you don’t blah blah blah’ is the reason most veteran agents won’t work with him. Especially when his lack of creativity is taken into account.” Contempt practically dripped from every word and Peter was reminded again why he'd preferred this handler.

(Hopefully) Unaware of Peter’s unusually fond feelings, Stiles continued.

“A lot of us aren’t even sure why he’s still here. He must have some friend up high that helps him keep his job, though they’re going to have their work cut out for them after this. These tapes are pretty revealing and I don’t even want to talk about the room _I'm_ in right now.”

The theatrically shaky breath and noise of disgust that followed had Peter biting the inside of his lip to maintain his bodyguard image.

It was a good thing he did, because he’d just opened the door to find the man he could only assume was his target.

The four guards who were nearly on top of the man made it a bit obvious.

“That is your second target, a Mister Sean Rhodes. Mister Rhodes came here to meet with his favorite art dealer, the now late Arnold Sharpe. Rhodes has been aware of Sharpe’s sticky fingers and many rumors say that he was at least part of the reason Sharpe began stealing from private galleries in the first place.” Stiles’ low, smooth synopsis paused as Peter continued on his way around the perimeter of the room looking to see if any opportunities would present themselves.

His handler’s professional tone slipped a little with his next informational summary.

“In case The Ass didn’t let you know, the contract was requested by the family of one of Sharpe’s latest victims. The thief hadn’t cared about human collateral damage, just the art. The couple who owned the gallery were crushed by their home collapsing on them when Sharpe blasted his way out after hearing some cop cars approaching. _Asshole_.” The epithet was soft, as if the handler hadn't intended to say it aloud, but the vitriol it contained was impressive.

Peter was impressed.

He double checked that he wasn't showing any indication of it.

Stiles sounded a bit distracted as he calmly rattled off more facts in his earpiece.

“Funnily enough, the cops weren’t even there for him before the explosion. They were just checking out a domestic disturbance a few streets over.”

About three-fourths of the way though the room, Peter paused. Mirroring another guard’s position at a window, he considered his options.

Direct conflict was written off immediately. While he might be able to make it out of the room alive even with the five guards currently present, it’d be nearly impossible to get any further. Whatever backup they’d call wouldn’t trust him, especially if he'd be covered in blood. Getting Rhodes away might be just as impossible. The man was wary, tense and guarded both literally and figuratively. Any further disturbances wouldn’t lure him, they’d spook him into running.

“Mister Rhodes here is on our list not just because of the training thing, though. No, this guy was the one who commissioned Sharpe for that specific piece of art. They were meeting here for the exchange.”

Peter gave a low hum of acknowledgment that he was sure wouldn’t raise suspicion from his fellows, - with how quiet he’s been it probably helped to give off a little noise with how loud the actual guards were being - but he hoped the handler would finish soon. The information was interesting and possibly useful, but it was difficult to think with someone chattering away in his ear.

As if to prove that point, a short almost choked cough from his earpiece put his ponderings on hold for a moment. Peter listened, eyes scanning the grounds outside of the window, as his handler fumbled something with a low curse. The sound of something hitting the ground was followed by a defeated sigh. It sounded like the handler had dropped a thin piece of metal. A stylus, maybe, or perhaps a small screwdriver.

Turning his head, Peter put the thought out of his mind for now. If the handler needed to fix his glasses in the middle of a mission, that wasn’t his problem.

If it became his problem, well, he'd just have to make it the handler's wouldn't he?

Carefully ignoring the low mutterings from his headset - Stiles probably wasn’t directing the ‘get back here’ nor the almost calm ‘okay, let’s try this again’ at him anyway - Peter turned to continue walking the room’s perimeter. Within a step or two, he’d brought his focused instinct back up to check the room for any unusual opportunities. He’d located two closets, a trunk, and an unattended glass ripe for poisoning before the voice in his ear had him snapping back with a blink.

“Alright, the infodump is over.”

Peter continued to blink rapidly in surprise before catching himself, just in time to not let the following flash of annoyance show.

A voice breaking someone’s focus wasn’t that astonishing, he berated himself. It’s just that it hadn’t ever happened to him while at that level of focus before. Usually people just sounded very faint or sometimes slow, like watching a video in slow motion. He’d never lost focus while still actively using it.

Not since he'd woken up in the hospital at least.

Damned memory loss.

“Back to what I was saying before that,” Stiles continued, unaware that there was a problem, “Myers can’t threaten you and, unless a contract specifically calls for a method, you’re basically free to carry out contracts as you like as long as they get finished with minimal non-target kills. Of course, cleaning up after yourself is always appreciated. Things like wiping the tapes techies can’t get to will win you extra points.”

Points? Were they treating this some kind of game? While Peter knew he would normally find that amusing, the feeling was currently muted and instead warring with a much stronger feeling of annoyed affront. (Yes, he was aware that his bad mood from dealing with Myers was causing at least part of this, not to mention the lack of sleep, but hell if he could do more than try and push it all down right now.)

(The fact that his current handler was ~~distracting~~ _distracted_ was also an issue.)

Something of that must have come across, or his reaction wasn’t too uncommon, because Stiles was quick to explain.

“It’s all part of the Hitman’s Challenge.” A plastic popping noise filtered in over the earpiece, nearly drowned out by Stiles’ satisfied ‘gotcha’. His voice was noticeably more cheerful as he went on. “Nearly every agent with HAF contracts agrees that they all start blending together once you’re solidly in the double digits. To keep it spicy and to keep the agents alert, the ICA has a rating system for all contracts of that type. There’s a board for it on the Hitman landing page on our intranet, dude, I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

Blending in at another window, Peter split his focus. While his eyes roamed this side of the room spotting a few more useful items, he thought back to the chart he’d thought was a bragging board for how much bonus money was made on a given mission. The top twenty-five missions were there, marked with what he now realized were points. Agent and mission ID were listed next to a value with most being in the hundreds of thousands range.

Another plastic pop was followed by a soft arrhythmic squeaking. An idea of what his handler was doing flickered just out of reach, which only served to make his resurfacing bad mood worse.

“So don’t let The Ass get you down. This is a job, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be creative. Do what works for you, what makes the most sense, or maybe even try for some poetic justice. The world is your oyster!”

“Alright.” One of the security members next to Rhodes removed a finger from his radio to speak to his employer. “Evac is ready, sir.”

Creative, hm?

Annoyance had always led him to his truly 'creative' solutions.

It was nice to be able actually follow through with one this time.

Peter started moving towards the far side of the room even as the security detail next to the target loosened up and prepared to move out. Now, if only he could find it again...

There, behind those partially crated sculptures.

The first half of the target’s men were already moving towards the door, Rhodes in the center of the line as they flattened out their formation to fit through the opening.

“No way,” Stiles breathed into the earpiece. Ah, so his handler could see him then? Peter allowed a vicious smirk to bleed on to his face as he deliberately released the winch at the perfect moment.

He was almost entirely hidden by the crates, but he was still able to hear the clanging squelch clearly as the relatively small and incredibly gaudy chandelier landed on the target. Satisfaction quickly gained ground as his earlier anger and tension found an outlet.

A falsely innocent look replaced the smirk for just a moment.

“Oops.”

That startled a laugh out of his handler, who was quick to mute it.

Removing his hand from the winch he quickly wiped the mechanism off with a handkerchief he found in the borrowed uniform’s pocket. Slapping an angrily concerned look on his face, Peter confirmed the kill on his way out the door. He was already headed down yet another staircase by the time people thought to look for someone responsible.

“Very nice.” The handler’s voice was nearly a purr over the earpiece. Peter could just about hear the grin in Stiles tone. “From a garroting in a moderately trafficked hallway to a smoothly executed accidental death by chandelier. You should get yourself a new handler, Agent. You’re wasted on Myers.”

_Damn right he was._

He'd tried twice already to get away from the incompetent handler, but so far none of those Peter tried to reach out to within the company (sparse as they were) were able to get him a new one. Frustration rising to dangerous levels at the unintentional reminder, Peter breathed deeply to try and regain his composure.

If this place wasn't his only lead on who he was before, Peter would already have been on his way out the door.

“Now, I'm sure you can make it out on your own and I'm absolutely not gonna try and tell you were to go, but I've got some exit options lined up for you if you'd like to hear them.”

A nod to one of the guests Peter was passing in the gallery was enough to convey his response.

“Alright.” His handler audibly rubbed his hands together, bringing them close enough to his headset that Peter could pick it up. “We've got walking to a nearby SIS agent's vehicle, which, _boring_ , but available. Next, there is a moped parked in the alley out back, not bad, followed by the slightly more interesting options of hot-wiring a car or motorcycle. Unfortunately there's no helicopter option for you. Neither Rhodes nor Sharpe were extra enough for them, I guess. It's the most tragic part of this whole contract, honestly.”

Covering his earpiece in a way similar to the actual members of the gallery security, Peter was able to respond without suspicion.

“What make and models?” He wasn't too picky, but he liked knowing his options if there were any.

“Looks like a Renault Cilo aaand,” Stiles drew out the vowel possibly to buy time or perhaps just for fun, “a Yamaha MT. Not sure what year or specific model type without running their plates, but they look fine. Both have the looks of long time parking so they shouldn't be noticed for a while.”

“Motorcycle it is.”

“Alright, it's two blocks south of the main entrance in the basement parking. It's the only Yamaha there, you can't miss it.”

He adjusted his course slightly and was soon out the door. Pulling out his phone to keep up a more believable charade, Peter asked the question he'd been thinking of for the past month.

“Why aren't _you_ my liaison?”

Sputters filled the line. It wasn't long before they firmed up into words, but that didn't help Peter understand.

“What? Me be – uh – I'm just – can't – why?” The final word was a bit more purposeful, but Stiles clarified a bit before Peter could answer. “I'm a temp, dude. Slightly longer term than most because of the circumstances that I don't feel like sharing even if I _have_ cut our lines from the recording since you left the building. Like, I'm flattered, but I'm not allowed.”

Peter ignored his disappointment in favor of the spark of intrigue his temporary handler had just fanned into flames.

“Wait, have you _only_ had Myers since you got in? They're supposed to rotate you for a bit to get an idea of who works best unless – oh.”

“Unless?” Peter prompted, one dark eyebrow raised as he turned off the narrow street and down the lot's stairs.

“Unless a liaison has no one else to handle.” The completed thought was contemplative and a little resigned. “I guess all the vets got out of his roster? It doesn't make much sense to allow that though, especially with the guy's track record.”

“Really? Do tell.” The request was a mix of genuine and sarcastic. He had known that logically that Myers' attitude shouldn't be allowed in a business such as theirs, but more ~~blackmail~~ facts wasn't something Peter'd turn down.

“You would not _believe_ the kind of _shit_ I've heard him try to p- _wait a second_.” Tone flipping like a switch from gossiping housewife to impatient interrogator, Stiles looped back in the conversation. “You were only comparing me to _Myers_ and not any of the competent handlers when asking me to be yours. I take it back, I'm not flattered. Pitying, sure, but anyone who feels flattered when compared to The Ass needs to make serious life adjustments.”

“I have some plans to adjust _his_ life it that makes you feel better, sweetheart.” He imagined his current top ten 'life adjusting' ideas so vividly he could almost feel the blood on his hands. Scanning the rows of motorcycles for the Yamaha, Peter curled and relaxed his fingers on his free hand a few times almost unconsciously.

“You and me both, dude.” The low, dark chuckle that accompanied the reply had Peter's world graying again. His involuntary focus brought the white-on-gray outline of a motorcycle to his attention, however, and he headed straight for it.

“Anyway, I've got to report his behavior to Finstock so if you reach out to Harris about the same thing we should be able to get them to let you do the usual rounds instead of being stuck with Myers.”

“It's the second thing on my list.” Peter took out the universal starter the ICA had provided him with and started the motorcycle without issue. “Just below changing into my own clothing.”

“I'm still not sure if I'm relieved or disappointed that I missed your quick-change adventure today. On the bright side, no additional threatening looks from Danny. So at least there's that.”

Peter paused with a recently liberated helmet in his hand, then smirked while looking directly at a nearby camera.

“'Disappointed', dear boy?”

“And with that, I think we're done!” Stiles loudly changed the subject, speaking a little faster than usual. “With you reporting the issue to Harris you'll have to give him a detailed report anyway so no need for duplicate work, right? Right. Report in to him when you get to where you're going, Agent Frisky-Two.”

“Of course.” The 'who do you take me for' should have been easy to read in his smirk before he fitted the helmet over his head. There was a huff of laughter in response. “Now, would you like me to keep the cameras on while I tackle my to-do list or-?”

“Good _night_ , Agent,” came the exasperatedly amused response.

The earpiece clicked into silence, but Peter was still smiling under his helmet as he pulled out the directions to the location of his last hit before the accident. Time to see if this upward swing his day had taken would continue.

* * *

“Are you both still up for the trip next month?”

“Yep! One last summer trip before Scott's classes are back in session.”

“When do your training sessions pick up again? Wasn't that in August as well?”

“I'm always training.”

“You know what I mean, Allison. No need to get defensive unless... Is someone bothering you about them?”

“No! No, of course not.”

“... Are you going to tell the truth or will I have to get Jackson to annoy it out of you?”

“Oh god, please don't. I don't think I can take another phone call about all the hot guys playing lacrosse and their stats until I break.”

“I'm assuming it's the stats that break you, seeing as the two men who've caught your eye are both lacrosse players.”

“Ha, yeah I guess. Wait, two? Who's the second one?”

“Um, Issac? The super cute boy that neither of you will shut up about? The one who's dating Kira.”

“Oh, uh, right. I, um, I didn't know he played.”

“You haven't seen him at Scott's pickup games this summer? They usually play together.”

“The pickup games, of course. No, I haven't really had time to go to those.”

“Allison.”

“Lydia.”

“Is it you, your coach, or someone else?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean and remind me to tell you what your tells are later so that you don't blow your cover. You've only been there three months, you weren't participating in early season competitions, everyone agreed that you'd only ramp up training to participate in the competitive area later this year so you can catch the wave. Who decision was it that you train this hard nearly a year out from your first competition.”

“Lydia, you don't have to worry about it. I can handle it-”

“Excuse me? Who is the expert in cover stories and who is about to blow theirs by making too many waves? Don't just sigh at me, who's doing this?”

“It's the manager of the facility. He saw my practice shots and he wants to see if I can make it to nationals this year so that I'm well known enough to get into the next summer Olympics. Coach and I couldn't find a good enough reason and there aren't any other ranges that big within an hour's drive.”

“I'll take care of it.”

“You don't have to do that, I can start driving out to-”

“That's not safe either. The more people who know you, who only met you around the same time, it will be suspicious. Let me take care of it. … Please?”

“Alright. I'll pay you back somehow.”

“You know you don't have to.”

“I want to though.”

“Well, then you can start by taking videos of Kira's face instead of her hands as she does sword tricks so I can finally see what you and your idiot boyfriend are always swooning about.”

“Oh my god, I take it back.”

“Oh, honey. I told you we were stirring a pot linking your backstory to his with the whole 'high school sweethearts reunited' angle. The love triangle is now a rhombus and I'm not even there to see the fallout. Be prepared to dish on the all the interesting details and not just your mooning over the other three.”

“Maybe I should just check in with Stiles from now on.”

“Please, you love me more. Besides, he's been grilling Scott about it since Kira moved into the house down the road over a year ago. It's like his own personal soap opera and I want in.”

* * *

###  **Post Assignment Liaison Report**

**PALR ID:** 2528 **  
****Mission ID:** 2103  
**Full Mission Classification:** H-AF 62.05.2.2103  
**Liaison(s):** Garrison Myers, replaced mid-mission by Stiles Stilinski on request of Alan Deaton  
**Status:** DUPLICATE – PENDING DELETION _(See PALR-2536 submitted by Garrison Myers for details)_

 

 **Overview:**  
All objectives complete with only minimal issues. The first was completed in within half hour of the mission's start time under the direction of Garrison Myers and the second was completed fifteen minutes after the handler hand-off. Total mission time ran at 57 minutes.

 **Recommendations:**  
I recommend that Myers undergo remedial Liaison training as he was extremely unprofessional when speaking to his agent and could be heard out in the hall even with the door closed. Agent 62 needs to experience the customary orientation including the usual rounds with varied handlers as he gets a feel for the work and so the ICA can get multiple views of the agent's work either way.

 **Full Summary:**  
_[ click to see details]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyy, I'm not dead! In fact, I'm still killing fictional characters instead. Thank you all for your support!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [cywscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross) and [twothumbsandnostakeincanon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/somanyofthekids/pseuds/twothumbsandnostakeincanon) for being amazing and inspiring and dragging me in to Steter hell. The people here are really nice actually, but the murder level is about what you'd expect.


End file.
